


Disappear, stop breathing

by ko_writes



Series: Writing out my emotions [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Pansexual Character, Self-Harm, Stress, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes





	Disappear, stop breathing

   Burning in my throat, burning in my eyes.

   I'm a child, I'm not an adult; I act like an adult though. She's the opposite side of the coin; she's an adult but acts as I should in society's stereotype of the western teenager.

   I have no opinion, no freedom. It's confining, claustrophobic and choking; nausea rises in my throat as I struggle to breath.

   I want to cry and howl and sob; but I can't. My gut has become a black hole and the rest of my form is fighting it's pull against my will; I want to disappear.

   I remember when I would bite down, hard and on the soft, pale flesh of my arm; once the resulting bruise lasted a week before yellowing. It was a brand, causing the same sickness as I feel now.

   Life, I think, is an upward battle; it only gets harder. I try to imagine a life away from here; a house, a dog, a husband or wife or other significant other. Gender never mattered to me when it comes to romance, at least. It seems _so, so far_.

   I close my eye and a tear escapes.

   I dared to call her a child, my mother. She acts like a child and refuses to acknowledge it; I'm the child, apparently.

   I'm scared of her sometimes. I speculated as a younger child, about seven or eight if memory serves, that she would hit me if she ever snapped. If a hard slap to the wrist counts, if it hurt, then she has; but not enough to warrant arrest or anything of that nature.

   I hate her.

   I mean, she's my mother; I love her sometimes... right?

   I sigh, I just don't know.

   My mind runs away from me, showing me harmful pictures and damaging advice.

   _Punch, bite, cut; cut your arms, cut your legs, cut your wrists, cut your throat_.

   I picture myself laying on my bedroom floor, blood saturating into the stained carpet that will never be replaced. I picture my parents walking in to find my lifeless corpse, cold and unmoving. I picture the funeral; it's not the first time I've seen this so I know what's going to happen; my mother turns to my dad, my amazing dad, and says that I took the attention seeking too far; he cries. The image skips to a courtroom, my mother and my dad are getting divorced. A little while later, time skipped, he looks almost happy.

   I feel sick.

   I'm told to apologise. It wasn't my fault, why should I?

   I think of jumping off the bridge tomorrow.


End file.
